


Hiding Place

by Batsymomma11



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Best Friends, Bruce Needs a Hug, Dark, Depressing, Explicit Language, Heavy Angst, Hurt Bruce Wayne, M/M, Protective Clark Kent, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-04 00:39:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16336439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsymomma11/pseuds/Batsymomma11
Summary: Bruce goes to the rooftop for a rare cigarette and some fresh air. He runs into a couple of men who think he's an easy target and decide to brutalize the rich kid.





	Hiding Place

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING--I tagged this, but there is a rape depicted in this piece. It is not a feel-good piece in any way shape or form. It's graphic and dark. If this isn't your thing, back up and leave now. 
> 
> It's dark and ugly, but yeah, I wrote it :/ 
> 
> I do not own DC or its characters. I do own this messed up one-shot. Thanks for reading.

            The cigarette fell from his lips and hit the rooftop with a fizzling puff of smoke. The ember on the tip quickly snuffed out into the puddle of water circling it. It must have just stopped raining because it smelled fresh and clean, with no trace of the smog that usually clung to Gotham’s skirts.

            “Fuck,” he hissed, grumbling as he reached back into his dinner jacket to seek out the pack of cigarettes Alfred would be furious if he found and stopped up short. He wasn’t alone up here.

            Scowling into the shadowy darkness, Bruce could just make out the haze of two men. They were meandering the rooftop, looking to any other passerby like they were merely taking in the scenery. But to Bruce, they didn’t look interested enough in the glow of amber city lights that domed above them or the slightly heavy weight of rainy air around them. They looked more interested in who else was on the roof.

            It was going to rain again soon anyways. He could feel it.

            Rolling his eyes, Bruce gave up on the search for his cigarettes and started back towards the roof entrance to leave. He’d come up for a moment to catch his breath and escape all the commotion of the ballroom. He’d come up to get away from it all, not to face potential interested parties who might want any number of things he wasn’t willing to give. Conversation, drinking buddies, or even sex. He wouldn’t put it past them.

            Bruce Wayne was known to have his proclivities. No matter that nearly everything was a fabrication. He had no patience for it now.

            Even as quick as he moved, gliding over the rainy cement in thousand-dollar dress shoes, Bruce still didn’t manage to get away in time. Something which set off his warning bells and made him tense even before they got within spitting distance. The taller of the two approached him and stepped between Bruce and his escape with a bright, whiter than white smile. His teeth looked a little too perfect to all be real.

            Slipping into the role of Brucie, Bruce sluggishly accepted the hand with his own smile and blinked dumbly up at him. The man was a handful of inches taller than him. Obscenely tall.

            “Who might you be?”

            The man’s smile widened, “Emerson.”

            “I’ve not heard of you and I usually hear of everyone at these gigs,” Bruce grinned, eyes swiveling slowly to the other man who was closing in, “Who’s he?”

            “Manson.”

            “Manson?” Bruce frowned, “Sounds like a last name.”

            “It does, doesn’t it?” Emerson agreed, straightening his shoulders in a posture that screamed alpha male complex. Bruce tried not to roll his eyes. He was _really_ in no mood for this shit. “Where are you going?”

            “Back to the party,” Bruce shrugged, “I got my air, now I want more booze.”

            “We’ve got booze,” Manson suggested quickly, making Bruce’s hands fist at his sides, “Back in our room. Wanna join us?”

            Bruce allowed his expression to look like he was really considering the offer, then he blew out a saddened breath, “Really, I can’t. I left a hot number in red down there waiting for me, if you know what I mean,” he winked, “And I don’t want to miss out on my opportunity.”

            Emerson nodded slowly, something slippery and black flickering in his gaze peripherally. But Bruce didn’t miss it. Or the implicit threat Emerson didn’t think he was showing. Bruce’s muscles flexed beneath the smooth lines of his tailored suit, angling his hips as he began assessing an escape route. They were blocking the only exit but that didn’t mean there wasn’t another way. He just needed to think of one. And quickly.

            He needed to keep them talking and stall. With his patience as thin as it was, it was difficult to remember he wasn’t the Batman at present. He was Bruce Wayne. Fop, slut, and brainless idiot.

            “But you could hang out with us for a minute, right?” Manson argued, his expression pinching as he studied Bruce in jerky little swipes. His hands were trembling, and he looked far too eager. Bruce frowned, letting his unease show the tiniest bit. If the men felt that Bruce was worried, they may back off. He could call their bluff; make them too scared to enact whatever it was they had planned.

            If they wanted to rob him, he had about three hundred in cash in his wallet. That would probably hold them over.

            Or, he could accelerate everything. It was a gamble. But one he was willing to take.

            “Listen, I’m just not interested,” he shrugged helplessly again, moving to step around Emerson, “But thanks.”

            A hand stopped him, and Bruce sighed. God, he was going to have to make this ugly. And he didn’t want to. He really, really didn’t.

            He’d just wanted some goddamn air and a stolen, sacred, smoke. He’d just wanted a fucking _minute_ to breathe without everyone watching him, waiting for what other, stupid thing he might do.

            “I don’t like to be touched without permission,” Bruce laughed moronically, “Call me finicky, but I like consent. Strange, I know.”

            Emerson surprised him by laughing in return, merely tightening his grip on Bruce’s shoulder. The grip was surprisingly hard and on the verge of painful. It would likely leave a bruise in the shape of fingertips. Which just pissed Bruce off.

            Any trace of politeness disappeared, and his voice hardened into ice.

            “Let me go.”

            Manson was vibrating now and at his back, closing in. Bruce shifted away, bumped into the other man’s front and was abruptly forced into action. He couldn’t allow himself to get boxed in like this.

            Snapping the heel of his hand upwards, Bruce hit a bony chin and forced Emerson’s head back until the man howled in pain. It had the desired stunning effect. But of course, his partner, wasted absolutely no time in his own attack. Manson flung himself onto Bruce’s back and they crashed forward before Bruce could even turn around. The impact knocked the wind right of his lungs.

            The fucker was a little heavier than expected and used it to his advantage. He ground Bruce’s face into the cement, scraping his right cheek raw as he tried to maneuver himself flush to Bruce’s back. If he didn’t know what they’d intended in the beginning, he certainly did now. The sound of a jangling belt being loosening and the thready hush of a zipper had Bruce automatically bucking up, sending Manson headfirst over him.

            _That_ was not something he was willing to suffer tonight. Absolutely not.

            Bruce got to his feet and sprinted for the rooftop entrance.

            He didn’t make it more than a handful of feet before needles of pain ricocheted into his body, spreading in wrathful waves. He arched, grunted, then plowed face-first into the rooftop. He became about as useless as if he was drugged and all at once, the situation became deadly. Not just annoying.

            A taser. A fucking taser.

            It was just his fucking luck.

            Bruce growled lowly, struggling to get his limbs to cooperate as precious seconds ticked by and he could hear both Manson and Emerson closing in. Unfortunately, his body wouldn’t listen and when Emerson crouched at his side and gripped the scruff of his neck with surprising force, he could feel the man’s rage at being bested. He could tell this experience was going to be brutal.

            _Move, Wayne. Get up. Move._

            “You’re gonna pay for that Wayne.”

            Bruce smirked, “Yeah? Fuck you.”

            “Oh, we will,” Manson was talking now, eagerly digging at the meat of Bruce’s thighs and ass like he was a cat fluffing pillows. Bruce let loose a feral snarl which quickly turned into a hiss of pain when Emerson pressed something jagged and sharp into the base of his throat.

            At some point, a knife had come into play and Bruce hadn’t even noticed.

            He’d been off his game. Too focused on trying to unwind and relax. And there was the sickening realization that he was likely going to have to pay for that. As Bruce Wayne, he couldn’t do much. Bruce wasn’t supposed to be proficient in combat. He wasn’t supposed to be able to defend himself or know what to do when two assailants attacked him on a rooftop with only one access.

            He was supposed to panic, freeze up, and let them do what they wanted. He’d live, sure, but there would be a couple scars and maybe a terrible story to share with an expensive therapist down the road.

            Batman would never allow this to happen. He’d roll, stab that knife into Emerson’s neck and let him bleed out on this fucking gravel rooftop. He’d chuck Manson off the roof just for shits and giggles and see if he survived the fall, because there was strong possibility that he wouldn’t from this—

            “Fuck,” Bruce squirmed as a meaty hand dug around in the seat of his slacks, groping its way between his legs, “Don’t you fucking dare.”

            “Tough words for a guy who’s pinned. You’re drunk Wayne. In the morning, this will all just be a bad dream.”

            “Relax,” the man between his legs murmured, trying and failing to get his captive to do so.

            If he’d not been rendered inert by the taser, there would have been a possibility he could have escaped without fanfare. But stunned as he was—between two men and a knife with no armor or weapons…

            Bruce shimmied a little, feeling the needle-like probes of the taser still tight in the skin of his back. He focused on the sensation of his expensive silk shirt brushing his throat, with each breath, rather than the wet cold of the blade that dug in.

Except, the situation was one he’d never encountered before, so his concentration wavered painfully. His control over the situation rapidly disintegrated when the cold slap of reality came in the form of rough probing fingers. He kicked out, hard, and caught someone in their middle causing a gasping groan.

            The knife abruptly dug deep and sliced clear to his collarbone, barely missing his carotid. Hot, coppery, blood, spilled down his neck and gushed into the silk and Bruce sucked in a panicked breath.

            He’d bleed to death inside of fifteen minutes without medical help.

            “Manson, Goddamnit, you’re supposed to sit on his legs. What the fuck?” Emerson growled something in a different language—French?—then started hissing and cursing as he saw what he’d done to Bruce’s neck. “You made me cut him, deep. Fuck.”

            The blood was wetting half his shirt now and was chilling in the slightly cooler than average temperature outside. Gotham’s Springs weren’t for the faint of heart.

            If he could just keep them distracted, keep screwing them up, they would give up. He could tell they hadn’t intended a murder, though it was quickly becoming that way. They’d thought he’d be easy. And they wouldn’t want much more trouble than he’d already given them.

            “Should we stop?” Manson sounded disappointed and strange. Bruce was losing a lot of blood. Too much, too fast.

            “No,” Emerson moved the blade a little, as if to assess how deep the gash was again then sighed, “No, no. We’ll go fast. I’m already fucking turned on. It won’t take me long. Get moving.”

            “Alright.”

            Distantly, Bruce heard the sound of a chopper landing on the nearby hospital Helipad and wondered vaguely if that person would live or die.

            He didn’t want a cigarette anymore. Which was something.

            His slacks being roughly worked down his hips brought him back to the rooftop in sluggish waves and Bruce felt himself steadily going limp without his permission. He was supposed to be thinking of ways to escape. Ways to do this without outing himself as the Bat or as a man who knew way too much about how to fight. 

            He was supposed to—

            Hot, searing, pain.

            The fucker had gone in dry as a fucking desert. It was enough to bring immediate tears to Bruce’s eyes.

            He arched automatically, trying to lift himself up, to move away from that pain but he couldn’t make his arms work and Emerson was digging that blade into his neck, still steadily bleeding him dry. He was going to—he might—he might actually pass out.

            Manson worked quickly, which was at least one small blessing but he was rough. He grabbed at Bruce’s hair and fisted it, tearing pieces out by the roots, making Bruce grimace and instinctively flex away. He ground Bruce’s naked hips into the gravel till Bruce was fairly certain he was going to have gravel burns that wouldn’t go away for weeks there. He might have to pick out stones.

            “Hurry up.”

            “I’m right—almost—”

            Bruce grimaced then felt acid climb up his throat when Manson finished. And he must have blacked out for a moment because, he didn’t remember closing his eyes. But he had to struggle to get them back open and when he did, he could tell it was Emerson having his turn.

            Manson had traded places and had the knife in his neck while Emerson savagely got his rocks off. Thank God he took less time than Manson. He was smaller too, which was another fucking fabulous bonus. But it still felt like someone was trying to shred his insides.

            Finished and seemingly unaware of the fact that Bruce might die, Manson and Emerson took their time trying to clean up the mess and not leave behind evidence. Apparently, their master plan had not involved condoms. Or, slicing his neck open had thrown them off their game and they’d forgotten in their hurry to fuck him.

            It didn’t matter. Bruce would get the evidence and he’d never forget their faces. The Bat would have his vengeance. Bruce Wayne would keep everything under wraps and no one would need to know. Everything would be fine. No one needed to ever find out.

           “Hurry up Manson. My God, he’s barely conscious.”

           “He’s not gonna die, though, right?”

            How many times had they done this to other men? How many others had they had practice with? Who else was hiding what happened because they were too embarrassed?

            Bruce fuzzily blinked into the tingle of raindrops on his cheeks and neck. His lower half felt like one throbbing mass, but he could tell his pants were still on from the knees down. They weren’t torn at least. He could probably make them work until he could get to a hospital and get stitched up and—

            He didn’t remember when it had started to rain. He had no idea how much time had passed. He didn’t think he could lift his head, let alone get up and walk away from this roof.

            Yeah, he might die.

            “No, no. We’ll tell someone we found him up here. They’ll come up.”

            “We can’t do that,” Manson growled, “We’ll be questioned. Police will get involved.”

            His two attackers fell silent and Bruce could tell when their decision to become murderers clicked into place. It wouldn’t be an active murder, like his parents, no. But it would just happen. They’d leave him up here where he could quietly bleed to death and tell no one. The next schmuck who came up to smoke a cigarette would find his cold corpse and wonder what the fuck had happened to that slut, Bruce Wayne?

            _Had got what was coming to him._

_Likely asked for it._

_Always was a whore._

Bruce blinked a few times, trying to clear a sudden film of tears that were clouding his vision and realized he was alone. They’d already left.

            He could try and get up now. He could—

            He couldn’t. He wouldn’t be able to.

            He was so fucking cold.

            Why hadn’t he just decided to jump off that fucking roof when he’d had the chance? At least he could have died quickly.

            Alfred was going to be furious with him. He’d be so upset. He would probably get chewed out till his ears bled.

            Which was a ridiculous thought, considering he wouldn’t be alive to even hear it. And one that a dying man would have.

            Bruce snorted out a watery laugh, then realized it sounded more like sobbing. Yeah, maybe he was sobbing. Maybe he wasn’t that thrilled about dying or having been raped on a dirty rooftop. Or maybe it was about the fact that he hadn’t done anything he’d really wanted. He’d not finished as the Bat. His mission was unfulfilled and all his work, would go wasted. Empty. Hollow. He’d not completed any of it, and everything would be left undone. He’d never be able to—

            Red.

            No, he wasn’t hallucinating. He couldn’t be. It was too precise and familiar and so godawfully welcome. There were crimson boots crushing gravel and the whispery crinkle of a cape that was far too gaudy to be so alien. Wide blue eyes peered down at him with brows drawn low and something like horror washed everything in tones of periwinkle and navy.

            Bruce’s eyes fluttered closed, but he felt like he was being lifted.

            If he was going to die this way, he supposed it was a good way to go.

            He wanted that cigarette again.

            “Clark?” Bruce tried out his voice and was faintly pleased that it worked still, “Got, a s-smoke?”

            There was a rumble under his ear, but it didn’t sound normal. It sounded like no. And Clark would never tell him no when he was dying like this.

            “Cigarette? That what you said?”

            Bruce nodded, weakly fumbling with his jacket that was somehow still on, until a slick cold hand pushed his out of the way and retrieved it for him. He struggled to open his eyes, realized he couldn’t, then gave up. Besides, the cigarette was magically between his lips and he needed all his energy just to draw in a breath of it. It tasted just like he wanted it to.  

            “I didn’t know you smoked, B.”

            Bruce released a papery laugh that turned into a quivering inhale. He got his first breath of smoke and with it, darkness swarmed up close to his ears, threatening to take him under.

            “I’m tired.”

            “I’ve got you. Almost there.”

            Bruce didn’t stay awake long enough to see the hospital. But he hung on. He hung on because he wasn’t done. He wasn’t nearly finished.


End file.
